Examinations
by Culumacilinte
Summary: Beregond is summoned to the Houses of Healing for a physical examination by Aragorn. He's not too fond of healers, so Pippin goes with him, both for moral support and to see Aragorn again. Sexual tension happens, and eventually AragornBeregondPippin!


Title: Examination

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Aragorn/Pippin/Beregond

Summary: Beregond is summoned to the Houses of Healing for a physical examination to make sure he sustained no injury from his participation in saving Faramir from immolation by Denethor. He's not fond of healers, so Pippin goes with him, both for moral support and to see Strider again. Aragorn, meanwhile, has been finding himself strangely interested in the thought of "examining" Beregond, but tries to mask it for the sake of Beregond's comfort. Equally, Beregond is aroused by Aragorn's touch. Pippin sees all of this, and, exasperated at the two Men, decides to speed things along.

Author's Note: Written upon the request of the lovely deliciousrevelation. The plotline belongs to her, although I did do a bit of tweaking. So, yeah. I dunno how this'll go, as this is not a pairing (threesome?) I'd ordinarily write. But there we are. Here you are, Dell! All for you!

"Father!"

Peregrin Took and Beregond son of Baranor looked up at the shrill, yet-unbroken sound of the voice of Beregond's son, Bergil. As they looked toward the sound of the noise, the lad sped into view, his cheeks ruddy from a run through the city in the crisp morning air. As he saw the two of them sitting, breaking their fast, he skidded to a halt and hailed them.

"Father, Master Pheriannath. My greetings and those of the Warden of the Houses of Healing."

Beregond washed down the bite of bread he had just taken with wine from his goblet and turned to his son.

"And ours to you, Bergil. Now what is it lad, that you go running in such haste, though we are now at peace? Speak!"

"You're called to the Houses of Healing by the Lord Elessar, father."

Beregond's fair brow wrinkled and he scowled. "Why, praytell?"

"Ioreth said something about a routine check for all the soldiers, to make sure they are fit. Also, she said, the King wanted to make sure that all involved with the 'incident with the Prince of Ithilien' had got no injury. I can't say I know what she's talking about, but I expect you do. The Lord Peregrin" he deferred to Pippin at this point, bowing ever so slightly, "has already had his examination, she said."

Beregond glanced at Pippin for confirmation. "Aye, I have."

"Hmph." Beregond snorted into his whiskers. "Very well, lad. Run back and tell the Lord that I shall be there with all speed."

Bergil bobbed his head in a quick, perfunctory bow, waved goodbye to Pippin, and dashed off.

"Well, that's no trouble, certainly." Pippin commented idly. "Thought for a minute it was something bad. He'll just check you over- do a bit of poking and prodding, you know- make sure you're healthy, no injuries. You're quite fit though, so it shouldn't be a problem. He might give you a salve for that, though." He ran a small finger down beside the angry scar which cut through the sable of Beregond's trim beard. Beregond shrugged noncommittally.

"Why, whatever's the matter? You look quite as sullen as Merry after I finished all the Old Toby from back at Isengard, and that's saying something."

"I" Beregond began stiffly, "am simply not overfond of healers."

The corner of Pippin's mouth quirked, as though a smile threatened and was just barely being held back. "Oh?"

Beregond regarded Pippin with a sort of mock dignity and defensiveness. "When I was a lad, my mother- may the Valar bless her soul- was a healer, and she would dose us with infusions and poultices and the like much more than was necessary. After so many years of that, the thought of more medicinal concoctions becomes rather repugnant, does it not? I've not been to a healer since I first donned the black and silver."

He finished his little speech with an aristocratically tilted chin, refusing to meet Pippin's gaze lest the smile the hobbit had been repressing broke free. It did, and with it laughter, clear and echoing in the stone courtyard.

"You," Pippin said, still chuckling, "are afraid of healers? Beregond, son of Baranor, Soldier of Minas Tirith, Guard of the Citadel, big even for one of the Big People, are afraid of healers?"

"I am not afraid of them, _my lord perian_, just not… overfond of them, as I said before."

Pippin laughed again, and it rang sweet in the spring air. It felt good to laugh, after so many months in shadow and doubt. "Come now!" he cried, "Surely it cannot be as bad as all the fury of the orcs and the madness of…" he faltered, unwilling still to say the name, but hastily recovered himself. "You know what I mean."

"I do." Beregond said warmly, "But let us not dwell on such things on a day such as this. Very well, Master Peregrin, I shall go, if you consent not to tell anyone about my, ah… aversion to healers."

Pippin smiled. "Indeed you shall go, and I shall go with you. I've not seen Old Strider- that is to say the Lord Aragorn- for ages, and it should be a merry meeting! Come, Beregond! Did you not say you'd arrive in all haste? Let's go!"

He jumped down from his too-high chair and stretched, cracking the vertebrae in his spine with audible popping noises. When Beregond still did not move, he rolled his eyes and sighed in theatrically exaggerated exasperation.

"Come on, Beregond!"

After a minute's more badgering from Pippin, Beregond stood up, tall and lordly and for once not wearing his hauberk or any of the rest of his armour. The hobbit gazed up at him, having forgotten once more how very tall and impressive the Gondorian was. Soon however, his impatience took over once again, and he set off down towards the street where the Houses lay, his feet padding softly on cold stone. Beregond followed after him and they continued talking as they walked together.

Aragorn son of Arathorn - Elessar, Strider, Longshanks, Dúnadan, Elfstone, Telcontar, Wingfoot, King of Gondor, and Lord of the Houses of Healing sat upon his throne, deep in disturbed thought. In but half and hour, he would go to the Houses and examine one Beregond son of Baranor for any injury or malady. It was his self-appointed task to examine everyone who had been present at Denethor's suicide and the rescue of his son to make sure that none had sustained any hurt. The other soldiers who were due for a simple physical he left to Ioreth and the other healers, but he felt that he ought to do this himself.

And so he would, and it had been no problem with Pippin or Faramir or those of Denethor's servants who had been there, but the thing about Beregond… he shook his head, puzzling for the millionth time, _how was this possible? _ He was a Ranger. Had been, at any rate, and had lived for years in the wild with a group comprised solely of men and no-one else, of course he was no stranger to the notion of men lying with men. He just never had been one of those men. Had it been years ago, this feeling would have been strange, yes, but not a problem.

Now… he was married. And certainly not unhappily- nothing that might warrant this sudden… change of heart, as it were. He had his Arwen- his beautiful Queen, Undomiel, with her hair like shadowed twilight and her eyes grey as the sea- and he loved her. He had done for nigh on seventy years, longing for her laugh and her touch and her constant presence by his side, which he now had. He loved her so that he thought his heart might fair burst from it.

But this feeling for Beregond was certainly not love. He was well-acquainted enough with love to know it when he felt it. This was pure, animal lust, and it frightened him a little bit.

"Ahem."

He snapped suddenly out of his reverie to see a young lad standing before him, accompanied by one of his orderlies. He arched an eyebrow at the newcomer.

"Yes?"

The boy bowed nervously. "I am Bergil, your majesty, the son of Beregond. Um, the Lord Beregond wishes to tell you that he shall arrive at the Houses of Healing in all haste. Which, by now, would be a matter of minutes, so, um…"

Aragorn smiled inwardly at the lad's qualms, "So I ought to get up and get myself over there, is that what you're saying?"

Bergil looked rattled, clearly afraid he had offended the king. "Well, not per se, m'lord, but, well, if you don't want to keep him waiting, I suppose…"

Aragorn sprang up from his throne, this time with a real smile "Of course! Many thanks, Bergil. Come with me, and we shall join your father at the Houses!"

"G-go with you, m'lord? Ah- well, if it is your wish, majesty."

Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder, "Come lad, surely I am not so frightening as all that? Tell me about yourself as we walk."

And Bergil started telling the king about himself- haltingly at first, nervous in the company of the High King of all the West, but soon the words came easier and he was gaping at the Aragorn's tales of his many journeys and laughing with him as they made their way toward the Houses of Healing.

Pippin and Beregond had, when they arrived at the Houses, been politely ushered in by the Warden and were currently waiting in a room just off the main corridor. It was quite a pleasant room, reminiscent to Pippin of their bedroom in the House of Tom Bombadil. It was constructed of not the bone-white stone that made up the rest of the city, but of a clean grey stone. There were two small beds made of a mahogany-coloured wood, and it was brightly lit by many windows, whose white linen curtains blew in the fresh breeze. The door was covered by a hanging green cloth. The general impression of the room was one of clean, cool, restfulness.

Pippin flopped himself down on one of the beds, swinging his legs and whistling absentmindedly. Beregond smiled at his companion's manner and seated himself with considerably more dignity. After about five minutes, the Warden drew back the curtain in the doorway, bowed, and proclaimed "The Lord Elessar, Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of all the Western Lands!"

"Strider!"

Pippin launched himself at Aragorn, wrapping himself tight about his waist. A great laugh burst from Aragorn's chest, and he disentangled Pippin from his legs, chuckling.

"Oh, it's wonderful to see you, Strider!" He paused and looked coyly up at Aragorn. "Or ought I to say- my lord? Your majesty?"

The Warden looked scandalised at the hobbit's brazenness, but Aragorn rolled his eyes and gazed down at Pippin with the sternest and most kingly expression he could muster. "Insolence. Cheek shall not be tolerated, young hobbit."

Pippin smirked. "Rubbish."

Sitting unnoticed and, for the moment forgotten on the bed, Beregond suppressed a snigger. Aragorn smiled again. He had missed his companions of late, and it was good to see and talk with one of them again, especially Pippin, with his incorrigible spirit and impudence.

He turned to the Warden, who was still holding aside the curtain and stooped in a sort of hunchbacked half-bow. "You may go now, good sir, and leave me to my duty." As the Warden straightened up with a groan, Aragorn added with a smile "And you really needn't stand like that- it's rather bad for your back."

He smiled quietly as the Warden hastened away, and turned to Beregond, still sitting on the bed.

"Beregond."

He bent slightly at the waist in greeting, and Beregond blushed furiously. "My Lord, pray do not bow to me, I am but a common soldier. You are the king, do not humble yourself, I pray thee." And with that he sank into a deep bow before Aragorn, who, just as Beregond had done, shook his head.

"Nay, Beregond. All are equal here. I bow because it is courteous to do so, no matter who it is I may be bowing to."

"Ah." Beregond cleared his throat nervously, missing that glance Aragorn shot him from beneath his eyelids. Pippin, on the other hand, noted it, and his eyebrows rose almost into his unruly mess of cinnamon-coloured curls, a disbelieving smile twitching on his lips. So Aragorn fancied Beregond? Well that was certainly an interesting bit of information. To say that Pippin was delighted was a complete and total understatement.

"So, um," Aragorn coughed slightly, "Enough with the pleasantries, I suppose. Could you… ah, take off your shirt for me, please? I need to check for any wounds you may have sustained- clean them up, if need be."

Beregond started to untie the black leather over-tunic he wore, emblazoned with the White Tree. He placed it neatly on the cot and then shucked his simple white linen shirt. Aragorn's eyes widened. There were no recent injuries anywhere, but crisscrossing scars here and there; testaments to valour in battles past. And Beregond certainly very… hale, so to speak. His curling black hair fell around his shoulders, offsetting pale skin and taught muscle with only a light dusting of sable hair across the chest. Pippin's brows rose a further few degrees and he smirked to himself. He did not blame Aragorn for his obvious reaction- Beregond was a beautiful man. Pippin himself had no qualms about his recognition of this fact; he'd known he liked the lads as well as the lasses for as long as he could remember, but Aragorn… Pippin could tell from the half shocked-half captivated expression on his face-the way he tried desperately not to seem as though he was staring, this certainly was new to him.

Beregond's skin heated under Aragorn's gaze, and he shifted slightly. Looking up for a moment, his eyes met Aragorn's and he was shaken by what he saw there. Aragorn must have seen the jolt that passed through the other man, for his mouth went suddenly bone-dry and he looked down.

Pippin leaned back and watched as Aragorn, his practiced skill blunted by his nervousness at touching the other man's unclad arms and chest, started to examine Beregond.

"You seem to have come off quite well, my friend! Fortunate, indeed."

Beregond nodded mutely, silenced by Aragorn's touch, for, nervous though he might have been, his fingers were still deft and cool on the other man's skin, skirting bruised areas and pressing harder in others, to ascertain whether there was any damage to the muscles. All in all, it was rather like a massage, extremely pleasurable, and not a little unsettling in Beregond's mind.

"But-" And then those fingers were under his chin, tipping it sideways as Aragorn looked concernedly at the gash running down Beregond's jawline. "Hmm. This'll need something."

Pippin, still slouched on the cot, gazed as Aragorn leaned yet closer, examining the cut. Both Men had tensed, muscles taut as bowstrings, the forced silence in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. They were close enough to kiss now, and Pippin could tell that this thought had most definitely occurred to both of them. They were, however, being manly Men and stoic warriors, stalwartly ignoring this fact. A shudder rippled up Beregond's spine as Aragorn applied an ointment of _athelas_ to his cheek, and, though Aragorn was staring directly at him, steadfastly refused to meet his gaze. This continued for nigh on a quarter of an hour, both men speaking little, and when they did, it was in voices of forced lightness which only increased the tension permeating the little chamber.

Pippin had lost his patience with the two Men long before, but when nothing happened after fifteen minutes, he simply couldn't stand it any longer. He leapt up from the bed with a frustrated cry.

"By the Valar, are all Men this thick?"

He strode over to them, arms akimbo. "Strider!"

Aragorn leaned down and at that, Pippin grabbed him and kissed him.

Aragorn let out a muffled yelp against Pippin's mouth and tried to pull away, but Pippin clung determinately to Aragorn's head, leaving him no option but to kiss back. It was rather difficult to figure out at first, on account of Aragorn's mouth being so much bigger than his, but soon enough, Pippin had established a rhythm which worked. It was nice, Pippin thought, despite the strange scratchiness of the king's beard. Aragorn certainly knew what he was doing, that much was certain. However, when Pippin tried to deepen the kiss, Aragorn mumbled something against his mouth and he pulled back.

"Aye?" He arched an eyebrow

"I… I shouldn't be doing this, Peregrin. I'm wed, and-and while I'm flattered that you, um, think of me that way, I cannot, that is to say…" He trailed off. Pippin leaned carelessly on one hip, looking utterly and purposefully wanton. His pert lips glistened wetly as his small pink tongue darted over them, his hair rumpled, his shirttails falling out. He smirked up at Aragorn.

"Very well, then. There is another man in this room, after all"

He turned to Beregond, who did not move, seemingly petrified. With a last smug glance over his shoulder at Aragorn, who stood looking shocked, he lifted Beregond's chin with a small hand, leaned forward and kissed him. It was light and chaste, and Pippin found Beregond's lips to be less chapped than Aragorn's- softer and more giving under his. And Beregond smelled rather more refined, more like the rest of Minas Tirith. Perfumed somehow with an odour of class or privilege, where Aragorn still retained some scent of his days as a Ranger- sweat and grass and dirt. Pippin quite liked them both. As he pulled away from the Captain of the Guard, he whispered softly in his ear, so that only he could hear

"Your turn"

Beregond turned to stare at Pippin, seemingly shaken. "You- I- What?"

Pippin laughed gently. "You've seen how he looks at you, Beregond, O son of Baranor. Give it a go."

Beregond swallowed nervously, and glanced over at where Aragorn stood, ill at ease. "Pippin- I don't know that I should-"

But the hobbit silenced him with another kiss, not gentle this time, but a fierce pressure of hot lips, hungry and searching. This kiss was a tangle of tongues and teeth and small hands making their way down Beregond's back until he leapt up with a yelp, casting reproachful looks in the direction of the hobbit, who looked both amused and disappointed that his quarry had sprung away so quickly. Even as Beregond looked at Pippin, the other jerked his head slightly towards the king, and Beregond turned, squaring himself for a confrontation.

But none came. Aragorn stood, rooted on the spot, mouth hanging halfway open, gazing at where Beregond had been sitting. Beregond did a double take, how odd it was to see Aragorn, the Hero of the War of the Ring, looking like _this_! He turned back to Pippin, who was slouched on the vacated cot. Pippin smiled a little half-smile, looking at Beregond from under aristocratically raised brows, and blew a kiss at Aragorn.

_Right_, Beregond thought, _and now to it. _

He turned to Aragorn and took a deep breath. "My Lord?" Aragorn started hugely, snapping out of whatever haze he'd been in.

"Ah-yes? Sorry, Sir Beregond. What did you want?"

And in one great stride, Beregond crossed to Aragorn, seized him by the back of his neck, and brought his lips crushingly to his. Aragorn made a sound which might have been a 'meep' had he been smaller and less manly, and Beregond smirked against his lips, deepening the kiss and leaving no room- nor any desire- for argument.

Pippin slumped back on the bed, watching the two men, who were clinging to each other and kissing ferociously. "Finally" he breathed to himself. And with that, he settled himself into a more comfortable position, more than ready to watch the show.


End file.
